Hot ‘N Heavy
Written & illustrated by allergeez ✨
Summary: When Rexar is summoned away to attend his family's grisly Culling ritual, Kriia finds herself home alone—and rapidly succumbing to a brutal cold. Fevered, sniffling, and miserable, she settles into her usual stubborn solitude, but it’s not long before her discomfort draws the attention of her ever-attentive (and unfortunately very into it) boyfriend.
Rexar, already on edge from the family soul-feeding ceremony, video-calls her just to check in—only to find himself instantly unraveling at the sight and sound of her sick misery. His sneeze kink flares hard as Kriia, sharp as ever even while congested, picks up on the effect she’s having and decides to lean in. What begins as a concerned check-in turns into a slow-burn tease session, with Kriia escalating her sickly behavior—sneezing openly into the camera, whining about her symptoms, rubbing her twitchy nose with pitiful flair—all while playing up the helpless brat persona that drives Rexar to the brink.
Despite being trapped in a ceremonial chamber of fire and blood, Rexar sneaks away into the tunnels beneath the estate to handle himself while still on call. Their video exchange becomes a tangled knot of fevered kink, emotional connection, and mutual obsession as Kriia fully takes control from the safety of her bed. She leaves Rexar completely wrecked—flushed, blissed-out, and absolutely in love.
The story ends on a soft, intimate note. Kriia falls asleep mid-call, curled up in her shadow-wrapped blankets, while Rexar watches from the other end—torn between the fire-soaked legacy he’s trying to survive and the feverish little chaos goddess who owns him completely. Even apart, they are inextricably tethered. NSFW 8.3K words
Kriia sniffled thickly and sank deeper into the oversized nest of blankets cocooning the living room couch. The shifting shadows curled lazily around her, slow and syrupy, echoing her own sluggish energy. One of them slithered up to adjust the heating pad at her lower back, and she let it, grumbling half-heartedly as she clutched a mug of hot tea to her chest like a lifeline.
“Y’know,” she muttered hoarsely, “if I die while you’re gone, I hope you feel so guilty about it.”
Across the room, Rexar Fang stood in front of the enormous fireplace, attempting to zip up his battered duffel bag. It was bursting with ceremonial garb, silver knives, and a poorly concealed bundle of cannabis that he was smuggling to one of his less stuck-up cousins.
He looked over at her with that crooked, boyish smile that always managed to piss her off and soothe her at the same time. His crimson bangs fell into his face, smoke curling gently from his nostrils like he was exhaling stress and affection all at once.
“You’re not gonna die, babydoll,” he said, voice warm with amusement and laced with barely restrained concern. “You’ve had a cold before. You’ve had the plague before. You kicked its ass in like, three days.”
She narrowed her bleary purple eyes at him. “I was younger. More powerful. Less congested.” Her nose twitched. “And not abandoned.”
Rexar laughed, then immediately looked guilty, shouldering the duffel and stepping toward her. “It’s just one night. One dumb, murdery dinner with my dad and a hundred or so of my least favorite blood relatives. I’ll be back tomorrow before you even sneeze.”
Kriia’s lips twitched at that. “Funny you should say that, because—”
She turned dramatically away from him, inhaled with a soft gasp, and stifled a rapid-fire series of sneezes into her sleeve.
“Hh’nxgt! N’chh! Huh…n’gtx! H’nxhh—hh’ngkch!”
Each one was gentle, barely louder than a breath, but they clearly shredded her sinuses. She groaned as she flopped back against the pillows, voice gravel-thick and mock pitiful. “I’m dyiiing.”
Rexar groaned too—but for a different reason. He half-turned away from her, hiding the flicker of flames that licked the edge of his irises for a split second. She caught it anyway.
“Oh no,” she rasped, her tone suddenly smug despite the congestion. “Did I trigger something, Sparky?”
He scowled over his shoulder, freckled cheeks tinged pink just above his piercings. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t do anything.” She curled her legs beneath her and sniffled, rubbing her nose on the inside of her sleeve with an exaggerated whine. “I’m just a poor, helpless shadow elf with a sensitive little nose and a boyfriend who’s about to leave me for his soul-sucking murder cult.”
Rexar dropped the bag with a groan. “Gods, you can be such a brat when you’re sick.”
She looked up at him from her nest, suddenly sincere beneath all the teasing. “But I really don’t feel good.”
That cracked something in him.
He crossed the space in three strides, falling to his knees at her side. The smoke thickened for a moment as he reached out to cradle her flushed cheek in his fireproof palm. The temperature of his hand was scorching, but it felt good against her feverish skin. She leaned into the touch instinctively.
“I know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb just under her eye. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“I mean it in the most tragically hot way possible.”
She smiled faintly, and then sniffled again. He reached for the tissue box and offered it wordlessly, but she waved him off and curled her fingers into his hoodie instead.
“Can’t you skip it? Just once?” she asked, quiet now, voice small in a way she rarely let anyone hear.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. The heat of his breath washed over her face in steady puffs of smoky warmth. “If I skip another Culling, they’ll think I’ve gone rogue. You know what happens then.”
“They throw a dramatic council meeting in an underground wine cellar and gossip about you in Latin for six hours?”
He chuckled, but didn’t deny it.
“Tomorrow,” he promised, brushing her crimson hair from her damp forehead. “I’ll come back early. I’ll bring you that spiced honey you like and the purple cough syrup you pretend not to love.”
She scoffed. “It tastes like grape soap and shame.”
“Exactly your flavor profile.”
She elbowed him weakly and winced. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to the bridge of her nose. She melted, nose twitching at the proximity of the smoke curling from his nostrils. She didn’t sneeze—but he definitely wanted her to.
“Text me when you get there,” she murmured, tugging on the drawstring of his hoodie with fever-heavy fingers. “And when you sneak off to smoke. And when you get bored and want me to distract you.”
“I’ll call,” he promised, hand lingering in her hair like he didn’t want to let go.
“You better. Or I’ll send you a sneeze video every hour until you die of frustration.”
He groaned low in his throat, fire flickering behind his pupils. “You’re evil.”
“I know.”
With great reluctance, he pulled away, lifting his bag again. She watched him walk to the front door, every inch of his tall frame bristling with affection and restraint. Just before stepping out into the cold, mist-choked air, he turned back, eyes gleaming red-gold in the dim light.
“I love you, babygirl.”
She blinked blearily at him and whispered, “I love you too. Go do your weird soul ritual and eat or whatever.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The door shut, shadows slid up to lock it behind him, and Kriia flopped backward into her cocoon with a frustrated huff.
She was miserable. And congested. And maybe—just maybe—a little excited to see what would happen when he finally
The silence that followed Rexar’s departure settled over the estate like a thick, damp blanket. It wasn't the peaceful kind—more like the suffocating quiet you get before a storm, heavy and full of things left unsaid. Kriia sniffled pathetically into her hoodie sleeve, then groaned and tossed the empty tea mug onto the coffee table where it clinked loudly against three others. She had no idea when she’d finished it. Time felt syrupy and disjointed, her fever fogging the space between moments.
The living room had dimmed without her asking—shadows drawing in tighter like sympathetic pets. A few of them pulsed sluggishly near the windows, absorbing the overcast grey light bleeding in through the frost-laced glass. Normally, they were sharp and reactive, moving in tandem with her breath or her moods. Now they just hovered there—lethargic, dull, sick like their mistress.
“Great,” she rasped, voice shredded by congestion. “Even my powers caught the damn plague.”
She reached for the game controller on the ottoman, wincing when her bangs brushed her oversensitive nose. It twitched immediately, sparking a sudden, flaring tickle that bloomed behind her sinuses like someone had dusted the inside of her skull with pepper and regret.
“Ughh…h-hhhuhh…”
The build-up hit her out of nowhere—vocal, sharp, and unpredictable. She wrinkled her nose against it, breath fluttering with frustration.
“Hhhiih’NGkt! Nn’chh! Hihhh… Hh’ngxshhh! Huhhh…k’nGXT!”
Each stifle was tighter than the last, barely muffled against her palm before the next snuck up on her. She blinked, dazed and bleary-eyed, and then groaned again, wiping at her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.
“Freakin’ ambush sneezes... I swear to gods…”
The shadows rippled a little at her irritation but did nothing to help. Useless.
She tossed the blanket aside in a dramatic flourish and grabbed her headset. If she couldn't breathe and she couldn’t taste anything and even her shadows had abandoned her for a nap, then she could at least shoot something in the face. Virtually.
The console booted with a cheerful chime that grated against her migraine. Kriia narrowed her eyes at the screen, gripping the controller with clammy hands. Ten minutes later, she’d died seventeen times, most of them to absolutely stupid shit—like walking off a cliff or trying to reload in the middle of a boss lunge.
“Fuuuuuuck yoooou,” she groaned at the screen, dragging her voice like syrup. “This game is rigged. I’m a goddess of darkness and I just got body-slammed by a skeleton with a rake.”
She sniffled again, hard, wincing at the raw scrape of it through her throat. Her nose twitched traitorously, not done tormenting her.
“Hhhuhhh… Hn’gktch! Tschhkt! Huhhh’nkxt—Hhh’tCHHkk! Ahh…”
She sagged forward, controller sliding to the floor. Her whole face throbbed, sinuses aching behind her eyes like someone had taken a crowbar to her skull.
“Should’ve let Rexar baby me,” she mumbled bitterly. “Stupid, soft, overgrown fire prince. Would’ve wrapped me in seven blankets and spoon-fed me soup if I’d let him.”
The thought made her lips twitch. She could see it—Rexar bustling around the kitchen shirtless, one hand holding a steaming bowl, the other trying not to set the dish towel on fire. He’d kiss her nose between sneezes and wouldn’t grumble when she wiped snot on his hoodie. He’d light scented candles even though she couldn’t smell anything, and hum some trap-metal melody under his breath while holding her against his furnace-hot chest.
“Wouldn’t have minded,” she muttered to herself. “Not this time…”
A flush burned through her cheeks, and not from the fever.
She flopped back onto the couch and stared up at the ornate ceiling, eyes tracking the familiar carvings of swirling flames and vines that lined the molding. Rexar’s family had no subtlety. Even the woodwork screamed power and legacy and death-by-fire. But they’d made this mansion theirs. Kriia had insisted on shadow-dampening the lights, adding blackout curtains, bookshelves stuffed with worn paperbacks, her worn-down bong collection, and a fuzzy purple rug that Rexar hated but let her keep.
“Bet he’s all stiff right now,” she muttered, imagining him standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his grim-faced siblings in some underground temple room, listening to hymns about fire and righteous consumption of souls. “Poor thing. Surrounded by murder nerds and horny ghosts.”
She grinned, then sniffled, then groaned.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
The shadows pulsed sluggishly again and coiled half-heartedly toward the kitchen.
“Don’t bother,” she told them. “The stove scares me when I’m like this. And I’m not about to microwave that mushroom rice he made. It smells like despair.”
Instead, she reached for her phone.
Rexar’s name was pinned at the top of her messages. Their last thread was mostly memes, selfies, and a video she’d made the last time she was sick—a dramatic montage of her sneezing into a tissue and whispering “this is your fault, you plague-ridden bastard” between fits.
She smirked and tapped record.
The front camera flicked on. She looked rough—hair a mess, face flushed, her facial tattoos standing out stark against her pale skin. Her voice was shot, but her smirk was devilish.
“Hey, Sparky,” she whispered. “Just wanted to let you know your girl is suffering. Miserably. Sniffly. Pathetically.”
She paused, scrunching her nose theatrically as another tickle crept up. Her eyes fluttered half-shut.
“Uhhhn…heh…Nhh’tchkk! Hh’ngxchhh! …Huhhh'n’kSHhh!”
Each one hit sharp and quick, her breath hitching prettily between stifles. She let the last one linger, groaning softly as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.
“Hope you’re having fun with the soul buffet,” she whispered, voice cracking. “But if you were here, I might have let you cuddle me. Might’ve even let you hold the tissue box. Too bad you’re not.”
She blew him a kiss, then hit send.
Ten seconds later, she regretted nothing and everything.
She curled up again, tissues and shadow-blankets gathered around her like the world's most dramatic fevered elf girl. Her body ached. Her nose was running again. Her powers were barely a flicker.
But deep down, in the part of her heart that she'd never admit aloud—not even to herself—she knew she didn’t just want him there because he’d help. She wanted him there because when she was this sick and miserable and exposed, he made her feel safe.
Like she didn’t have to pretend to be tough all the time.
Like maybe, just maybe, being vulnerable wasn't such a bad thing.
Another sneeze snuck up on her while she was thinking too hard about that.
“Huhhh… HnngCHhh!—ng’tchh! Huhh… kTChhh!”
She sighed, face buried in the curve of her elbow.
“Miss you, you big smoky idiot.”
The shadows tightened gently around her, cocooning her like arms she could almost pretend were his.
Kriia’s phone buzzed beside her on the nightstand, cutting through the haze of fever and television static. She blinked blearily at the screen. Incoming call: Rexar 🔥🖤. The profile photo—a ridiculous close-up of his face—made her snort, which turned immediately into a congested groan.
Still, her fingers reached for it.
The screen shifted, brightening to reveal Rexar’s face, framed by the dim, red-hued glow of one of his family’s ceremonial rooms. The camera angle was slightly tilted—he must’ve propped it on a table or altar—and his familiar mop of curly white-and-crimson hair was tousled and slightly damp. He had that look in his eyes, the soft haze of fatigue layered under a stubborn grin.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little plague rat,” he drawled, voice already thick with restrained amusement.
Kriia didn’t even try to look good. Wrapped in a tangle of blankets with her nose twitching under the haze of her fever, she lifted one hand lazily in greeting. “I hate everything,” she croaked.
Rexar chuckled, adjusting his position. “You look like you hate everything. Damn, babygirl. That cold is kicking your ass.”
“You should see what I did to the Kleenex box,” she mumbled, voice ragged and nasal. “It’s in mourning.”
Rexar’s lips curled into a grin that was too fond. In the background, flickering candles and smoky incense glowed on stone pedestals. Occasionally, a voice chanted something indistinct—ceremonial, formal, faintly ominous.
“You’re literally surrounded by murder priests,” she muttered. “And I’m the pathetic one.”
“You’re hot when you’re pathetic,” he said immediately. Then paused. “Okay wait, that came out wrong.”
She sniffled and coughed a laugh into her sleeve. “I’ll allow it.”
He leaned in closer to the screen, and she saw it: the shift in his expression. The subtle flicker in his red-grey eyes as he watched her rub at her nose, the tiny dip in his voice as he asked, “How bad is it?”
Kriia’s hand stalled just under her nose. Her breath caught.
That look.
That look.
Rexar, trying to play casual, forced his attention elsewhere—adjusting the scarf on his neck, pretending to fiddle with something just off-camera—but she’d seen it. The flicker of fascination. The simmering beneath the concern. And suddenly, Kriia remembered everything.
That first day they moved in. The endless barrage of “so cute,” the nose kisses, the tip-off confession that still made her stomach flip whenever she thought about it.
She narrowed her eyes at the screen.
“You alright, flameboy?” she asked, pushing her sleeve to her face, deliberately slow. Her voice dropped, teasing. “You’re staring.”
“I always stare at you,” he muttered, distracted.
“Mmhm.” She rubbed under her nose again, slower this time, just to see if he’d flinch.
He did.
Only slightly—but enough. His fingers twitched in his lap. His eyes darted, once, to the corner of the screen where her hand disappeared under the blanket.
Kriia grinned. Then, without warning—
“Hh’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh! Ngt’chh!”
She stifled the fit rapid-fire into the collar of his hoodie she was wearing. When she looked up again, Rexar had visibly swallowed. The hand that was resting on his thigh curled slightly, as if to resist the urge to reach through the screen.
“Gods,” he rasped, voice dropping. “Bless you, babydoll.”
“Thanks,” she sniffled, eyes narrowing wickedly. “But you don’t have to say it every time, y’know.”
“Yes, I do,” he said too quickly.
In the background, a voice called something like “Et parae, in tenebris vitae.”
Rexar glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “We’re invoking the judgment clause or whatever. Don’t worry, no one’s being disemboweled yet.”
“Tragic,” Kriia muttered, flopping sideways on the couch. “You look like you’re dying to be somewhere else.”
“I am,” he said immediately. “Like, with you. Under all those blankets. Probably being strangled by your nose.”
Kriia choked on a laugh. “You are so disgusting.”
“You say that,” he said, dragging a hand over his face, “but every time you do that little sneeze-sound—it’s like, I don't know, the gods are punishing me and rewarding me at once.”
Kriia blinked, caught between embarrassment and delight.
“Are you seriously flirting with me while your whole family is soul-feeding in the next room?”
He whispered back, “They’re soul-feeding quietly.”
Kriia grinned, sniffled again—loudly this time—and caught his expression just as he bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes fluttered half-shut for a second. His breath came a little shallower.
“Ohhh,” she breathed. “There it is.”
Rexar’s smile was lopsided now. “No clue what you mean, princess.”
“I sneeze one more time and you're gonna have to excuse yourself, aren’t you?”
He groaned low. “Don’t tempt me. This robe isn’t flameproof.”
“And whose fault is that?”
They stared at each other.
The room on his side seemed darker now—more intimate, the flickering shadows giving the illusion of privacy. In the distance, the low chanting continued, but Rexar didn’t look away. Not once. His attention was pinned to her.
To her flushed face. Her twitchy nose. Her messiness.
“You remember when you first told me?” she asked quietly. “About this?”
His breath caught.
“Gods, yeah. You were moving boxes, covered in dust, half-sneezing yourself into the floor.”
“And you just—said it.”
“‘I have a sneeze kink, babygirl,’” he quoted back with zero shame.
She rolled her eyes. “Most people would, like, ease into it.”
“I tried,” he said, grinning again. “I complimented your sneezes like ten times before that.”
“And I thought you were just into being a menace.”
“I am that too.”
Kriia laughed, then coughed, then rubbed her nose again with a tired sigh. “I don’t even have the energy to keep teasing you properly.”
“That’s okay,” Rexar murmured, voice dropping again. “You’re killing me anyway.”
Kriia’s gaze flicked toward the camera, slowly. Her breath hitched.
“I feel one coming,” she whispered.
Rexar visibly inhaled. “Fuck.”
Kriia let the build-up take its time—let it drag through her expression, her eyes fluttering, nose scrunching, hands slow to react as she waited just long enough to let him react.
Then—
“Huhhh… h’n’gtx! Hh‘gsch! hptt’CH!—n’gtx!”
She sniffled, voice hoarse: “You still with me, flameboy?”
But the screen had shifted.
Rexar had moved—camera tilted down now, showing the vague impression of a stone hallway. Somewhere private.
She heard him murmur, “One second,” followed by the sound of a door closing. Then nothing but the glow of low torchlight and the sound of him breathing—
Heavy.
Low.
Shaky.
Then—
“Ohhh, babygirl…”
Kriia’s grin widened as she curled deeper into her blankets.
She hadn’t even started yet.
The camera flickered as Rexar settled somewhere new—somewhere quiet, dim, clearly carved into the stone heart of the Fang estate. The sharp gothic edges of the ceremonial chamber had given way to dark brick and a low-hung torch glowing faintly behind him. His face filled the screen now, flushed and taut with restraint.
“Okay,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve got like five minutes before they send a blood-soaked cousin to drag me back. Use it wisely.”
Kriia’s voice came through soft, hoarse, and syrupy with congestion. “You mean abuse it wisely.”
Rexar blinked, breath catching faintly. “Kriii…”
She sniffled, delicately. The camera on her end tilted as she adjusted, blankets rustling. Her nose twitched as she rubbed a finger under it, voice dropping just enough to make his pupils visibly dilate.
“I still feel awful,” she murmured, eyes wide with mock innocence. “My nose won’t stop tickling…”
Rexar’s jaw flexed.
She sniffled again, breath fluttering—just slightly exaggerated, just long enough to tease.
“I think I’m gonna—hhihh… Hhh-n’ktchhh! Hh’gschhh!—n’nxtch!”
Each stifle was light, high-pitched, barely muffled by her wrist as her body shuddered with the gentle, rapid fire rhythm. She lifted her gaze slowly, finding the lens again with glassy purple eyes.
“Ughhh,” she breathed, congested and miserable-sounding. “They’re getting so bad.”
Rexar’s throat worked visibly. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Her voice went up in an exaggerated whimper. “I’m sick, remember?”
“You’re evil,” he corrected.
Her lips twitched as she brought her hand back up and gave her nose another slow, deliberate rub. “You think I’m faking it?”
“No,” he muttered, leaning forward, eyes hungry and half-lidded. “That’s the problem.”
Kriia giggled—then coughed, sniffling thickly. “My throat hurts…”
“Ohhh fuck me,” Rexar rasped, shifting in his seat. The camera wobbled slightly. His hand disappeared from frame, likely bracing on his thigh. Or lower.
“Can’t breathe through my nose,” she added pitifully. “And I’m all warm and achey and—hhihh… hehh…—nn’ktschh! k’chh! Nxt!”
Rexar’s breath hitched, and this time she heard the faintest rumble—a stifled groan that leaked from the back of his throat.
“Babygirl,” he breathed. “I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”
“Don’t do that,” she teased. “Not until I’m better. You still owe me soup.”
Rexar’s laugh was breathless. “Kriia, I swear to gods—”
“I wish you were here,” she whispered, letting the moment drop into something just a little softer. “My whole body’s so sensitive…”
She let that hang.
Watched it land.
Rexar swallowed again. The hand reappeared briefly in the frame, dragging across his mouth before vanishing again. When he next spoke, his voice had dropped nearly an octave.
“Say that again.”
She tilted her head. “What, that I wish you were here?”
“No,” he said immediately. “The other part.”
Kriia gave him a look. “You want me to say my body’s sensitive?”
The way he exhaled—shaky, low, through his nose—set her stomach fluttering.
So she said it again. Slower.
“My body’s… really sensitive.”
Rexar closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the wall, and let out a slow, unsteady breath that came dangerously close to a whine.
“You’d be touching me so much,” she added, voice rough from the cold but soft with intention. “You’d be trying to help. And I’d be all sneezy and needy and whiny…”
Rexar’s fists clenched.
“I’d be curled in your lap,” she continued, letting herself imagine it aloud. “And you’d keep petting my hair and kissing my forehead—and every time I sneeze, you’d just melt.”
“I am melting,” he rasped, cracking an eye open. “Krii, I’m—I’m gonna have to—fuck.”
She didn’t let up. Her hand fluttered to her face again, pressing lightly against her twitching nostrils as her eyes fluttered shut.
“Hhhihhh… snf—N’gtxchhh! hh’ptTshh! Hehh… hihh—huhhh’nkkT!”
The fit was longer, wetter, her breath fluttering between each stifle as she shifted under the blankets, clearly breathless by the end.
Rexar looked wrecked.
Face flushed.
Smoke leaking from his nose in thicker, steadier curls.
He stifled a noise into his fist that might’ve been a gasp. Or a groan. Or both.
Kriia raised her brows at him, eyes glinting. “Are you okay?”
He was not.
“Babydoll,” he croaked. “I—fuck—I can’t…”
“You’re in the murder basement of your family estate, calling your sick girlfriend while you’re supposed to be eating souls,” she said sweetly. “You’re doing this to yourself.”
“I had to call you,” he argued, breathless. “You looked so fucking sniffly and adorable—I couldn’t not.”
“Mmhm,” she hummed. “And now I’m making your life difficult.”
He pressed the heel of his palm into his thigh. His voice was tight, bordering on wrecked. “You’re making it impossible.”
“You poor thing,” she crooned, voice full of syrupy mock-sympathy. “You’re all flustered and helpless and alone in some dark hallway, and I’m here sniffling and whining and—huhh…!”
Her eyes fluttered shut again.
“Hhhihhh—hh'n'gtx! Hh’gchh! k’tchh! h’pttshh! Nnxtch!”
Rexar cursed softly under his breath, fingers tightening visibly as he shifted out of frame.
She could hear the rustle of fabric. Could feel the tension vibrating through the screen.
“Do you need a break, Sparky?” she whispered.
He exhaled shakily, clearly struggling to focus. “What I need is a stronger soul and a cold shower.”
“You’ll get neither,” she said, relishing the way his face twisted with tortured delight. “So you’ll just have to sit there and listen.”
He let out the most broken little laugh. “Gods, I love you.”
“Yeah,” she said, sniffling again. “I know.”
She shifted on camera, blankets slipping to reveal her shoulder—red X tattoos vivid against pale skin, flushed cheeks, and the hoodie still hanging loose from her frame. Her nose twitched again.
“Think I’m gonna sneeze again,” she whispered.
Rexar let out a small, strangled sound.
Kriia gave him the slowest, most delicious pre-sneeze buildup imaginable. Her breath hitched. Her brows drew together. Her lashes fluttered.
“Huhhh… hehh… hiihh… Hh—n'ghkkT! hh’tchhh! hihhh…NnngCHh!—uhhh…”
She sagged back against the pillows, flushed and sniffling.
“Ohhhhhh gods,” Rexar whispered, his voice so hoarse she barely recognized it.
His camera shifted again—blurring out briefly as he angled it just off his lap. One of his hands was still visible at the edge of the frame, curled tightly, knuckles white.
“I should hang up,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like begging.
Kriia smiled.
Then fake-whined, soft and desperate: “Baaabe, I feel so yucky…”
That broke him.
She watched it happen—his eyes fluttering shut, breath catching, nostrils flaring slightly as he let out a barely contained groan.
“I want to hold you so bad,” he whispered. “You’d be such a mess in my arms.”
She sniffled, then murmured, “I’m already a mess.”
He whimpered.
And for a second, Kriia forgot the ache in her body, the fever, the rasp in her throat. Because right now, she was winning.
Rexar Fang, descendant of murder-pyromancers, beloved soul of the underground music scene, six-foot-four menace of chaos and fire—
—was a stammering, undone wreck for her sneezes.
And she wasn’t about to let him forget it.
The sound of stone beneath Rexar’s boots echoed low and quiet, muffled by the thickness of air that hadn’t been touched by light in decades. The tunnel he’d ducked into stretched deep beneath the Fang estate—an ancient hall of carved obsidian, once used for rituals long since banned by the High Circle. It was colder down here, the walls damp with condensation, lit only by faintly pulsing glyphs scrawled across the stone.
He kept one hand on the wall, guiding himself deeper into privacy, the other holding his phone tight in his grip like a lifeline.
“I can still hear you breathing, y’know,” Kriia said on the other end, her voice like honey-dripped static through congestion. “Even when you run off like a scared little schoolboy.”
“I’m not—” Rexar broke off, dragging a hand over his flushed face. “I’m not scared. I’m trying not to catch fire in the middle of a death chamber, thanks.”
A breathy laugh filtered through the speaker. It was wet. Hoarse. Wicked. “Mmm. So dramatic…”
Rexar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He could barely think.
His body ached—not just with heat and the rising storm of tension clawing its way through his gut—but with guilt, too. Somewhere two floors up, his brothers and cousins were performing a ritual centuries old. Flames. Incantations. The devouring of damned souls. A necessary evil in the world the Fang family had built and one Rexar hated with every bone in his body.
He was supposed to be participating. Should’ve been cleansing the next sacrificial vessel. But instead, he was in a tunnel—palms shaking, breath catching, painfully hard in ceremonial robes that still smelled like ash and incense—because his sick, sniffly girlfriend couldn’t stop teasing him.
“You sound a little out of breath,” Kriia murmured. “Everything okay down there?”
Her image was still framed perfectly on his screen: blankets around her like a plush throne, hoodie collar rumpled around her collarbone, hair tousled from fever-sleep. Her nose twitched subtly as she sniffled, lips parted around shallow, tickly breaths.
“Krii, please…” he whispered, voice raw.
“Please what?” she asked, all wide eyes and mock innocence. “Please stop describing how I feel like my entire body’s melting from the inside out? Or should I keep talking about how raw my throat feels? Or how I’m so dizzy and achey I can’t even sit up straight without—hhihh…—hehhh… h’Nxgtchhh!”
She collapsed forward with a breathy stifle that hit all at once—perfectly timed, utterly devastating, her breasts bouncing slightly with the force of it.
Rexar let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled whimper.
Kriia straightened slowly, blinking at him with glassy eyes. “Still with me?”
He stumbled, catching himself on the wall.
“Rexar,” she said, softer now, teasing giving way to curiosity. “Are you actually okay?”
“No,” he whispered. “Not even a little.”
“Then why are you still holding back?”
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Because this is wrong,” he said, breathless. “I’m literally underground while my family’s performing a soul ritual and you’re—you’re making me…”
“Making you what?” she asked.
Rexar groaned. His hand disappeared from frame again, this time bracing against his thigh, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.
“Say it,” she whispered.
His nostrils flared. His smoke was thick now, curling up the camera lens. “You know what.”
“You like this,” she purred, voice hoarse but filled with smug glee. “You love this. Sitting in some haunted hallway, body burning, while your poor, congested girlfriend makes those little sick noises you lose your mind over…”
She sniffled again—loud, wet, intentionally exaggerated.
Kriia adjusted her position on the bed, shadows shifting around her like velvet tentacles responding to her mood. She looked into the camera with glassy, half-lidded eyes and a flushed nose twitching gently, deliberately exaggerating every motion as she reached up and rubbed her palm in slow circles beneath her nostrils.
“You still watching me?” she asked, voice like cracked honey.
Rexar, sitting hunched in the tunnel, nodded silently.
“Remember what you said that first night?” she crooned. “How you wanted to tie me up in a blanket cocoon, lay me in your lap, and keep tissues tucked into your waistband so you could wipe my nose for me every time I sneezed?”
“I—fuck—I didn’t mean it like—”
“Yes, you did,” she said with a sly smile. “You do want that. You want me feverish and soft and needy. You want me to look up at you with teary eyes and beg you to make the tickle go away.”
Rexar’s camera tilted slightly as he shifted, trying to hide the way his hips bucked forward. His breathing had fully changed—shorter, sharper, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.
“Say it,” Kriia whispered. “Say what you want.”
“I want you,” he finally gasped. “Sick and squirmy and fucking helpless. I want to take care of you until I can’t stand it anymore.”
Kriia grinned, slow and dangerous. “And then what?”
His next breath was guttural. “Then I want to ruin you.”
She gave a soft moan—half a congested groan, half breathy giggle—and tilted her head, pretending to sniffle innocently. Her fingers crept up to press beneath her nose again.
“Ohhh, Rexar… I feel another one coming… what if I can’t hold it back this time?”
“Don’t,” he begged. “Let it happen—please—”
She fluttered her lashes, breathing building in theatrical little hitches.
“Hhhuhhh… hhhH’NGSHhh! h’tchhh!—huh’Ktchhh! Ahhh…”
She didn’t cover it. Let the mist glint in the screen light again. And when she recovered, panting lightly, her voice went syrupy again.
“Bet you wish you were here to clean that up.”
Rexar groaned so deeply it echoed.
“Gods,” she whispered. “You get like this every time, don’t you? The second I sound a little stuffy, you forget all about fire rituals and soul feasting. All you want to do is—what? Babysit me? Pin me down and pet me until I sneeze all over you?”
“K-Krii,” he stammered, voice low, breath shallow.
“You’re so easy,” she purred. She leaned in toward the screen, just enough for her camo bra to peek out again as she pulled her hoodie collar down slowly. “Every little sniffle I make, you get hotter. Your fingers start twitching. You forget how to speak.”
He swallowed audibly.
“You want to help me, don’t you?” she asked sweetly. “Tuck me under the blankets, rub my back, kiss my forehead while I—hhuhhh… hh’nkkTCH!—huh’Nxtchhh!—hiihh... hhh’tchhh!”
She collapsed forward again, breath catching so prettily between sneezes she sounded winded by the end of it.
Rexar was on the edge. His breathing had gone shallow, one hand now flat on the floor beside him for support as he practically trembled with restraint.
“Princess…”
“I’d be whining for you,” she continued softly. “Nuzzling against your chest, rubbing my little stuffy nose into your shirt…”
“Babygirl,” he begged.
“And you’d love it,” she whispered. “You’d tell me how cute I sound. How helpless. How bad you want to—”
“Don’t,” he snapped—but the way he said it wasn’t angry. It was desperate. Like he needed her to stop just as much as he didn’t.
She tilted her head at the screen. “You’re making that face again.”
“What face.”
“That starving face.”
“I’m not—”
“Your eyes get all shiny,” she murmured, licking her lips. “And your nose twitches. And you get this little tremble in your voice, like you’re fighting every urge in your body not to lose it.”
He said nothing. He couldn’t.
So she delivered the killing blow.
“You’re so good at pretending to be composed when you’re turned on,” she whispered. “It’s adorable.”
Rexar snapped.
He dropped the phone briefly as he leaned his head back against the wall and groaned—loud. The screen went black for a second, muffled by fabric, before tilting sideways to capture only the edge of his jaw and the heavy fall of his red-tinted bangs.
His voice came through ragged. “I’m not gonna make it back to the ritual.”
“Don’t,” Kriia whispered. “Stay with me.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“But you will.”
He didn’t argue. Couldn’t.
He stayed there, slouched on the cold stone floor, ceremonial sash twisted around his waist, breath shaking, hips subtly shifting as he tried to ground himself. His smoke curled higher, denser, glowing with embers that shimmered with every ragged exhale.
“You’re wrecked,” Kriia cooed. “All because I’ve got a head cold.”
“Not just that,” he breathed. “Because it’s you.”
Kriia smiled—soft and real this time. “I’d kiss you if you were here.”
“Even if I was sweating through my clothes and leaking smoke?”
“Especially then.”
He laughed—a rough, low sound. Then: “You are evil.”
“I just know what you like.”
“You’re what I like.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then—quietly, almost sheepishly—Rexar said, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”
“Then don’t stop,” she interrupted, voice raspy with congestion and control. “Don’t stop anything.”
He exhaled so hard it sounded like his whole chest was collapsing.
“I can’t even touch you,” he rasped, one hand dragging across his jaw. “And I’m still closer than I’ve ever been.”
Rexar’s grip on the phone was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so tightly his temple ached. The flames of his family’s ritual still danced somewhere above, but down in this carved-out sanctum of obsidian tunnels, all he could see—all he could feel—was her.
Kriia.
A flushed, sniffling, sick mess on the screen. And she was glowing.
Not literally. Not like him. But in the dim lamplight of their shared bedroom, she looked lit from within—cheeks ruddy, nose pink and twitching, lips parted with every ticklish breath. She had that dazed look she wore when fevered, half-feral and fully dangerous.
She gave a hoarse little giggle, rubbing under her nose with a knuckle. “Still watching me fall apart, flameboy?”
“I can’t not,” Rexar groaned, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.
“Good.”
Then—slowly, theatrically—she lifted her shirt just enough to show off the curve of her camo bra. The motion sent her hair spilling messily over one shoulder, her breath visibly hitching.
“I think I feel another sneeze coming…”
Rexar couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
Kriia’s build-up was torturously slow. She let her breath flutter in ragged, uneven waves—head tilting, nostrils flaring delicately, lashes fluttering. “Hhhihhh… hiihhh… hhH’NG’tchh! K’tchh! H’ngCHhh! Huhhh… nn’KXshhh!”
She sneezed openly at the camera—wet, head-snapping fits that misted faintly in the dim light.
Rexar whimpered offscreen.
Kriia sniffled and tilted her head at him. “You still breathing?”
“Barely,” he rasped.
“Gods, you’re so easy,” she whispered, voice thick with amusement—and congestion. “You get hard so fast. Bet you’re already stroking yourself under those robes, aren’t you?”
Rexar’s head hit the wall behind him with a quiet thunk. “Don’t. Start.”
Kriia smiled—languid, sly, eyes half-lidded. “You want me to stop?”
He didn’t answer.
So she leaned in closer, let the camera catch every detail of her flushed, glistening expression. “I’m still burning up,” she whispered. “My skin’s so sensitive I can’t even lie still. And my nose just won’t stop.”
Another sharp inhale.
She snapped forward with a wet, breathy “Hh’NgxtCHhh!—uhhh…”
This time she moaned a little after, drawing her sleeve slowly across her upper lip. “Still there, Sparky?”
Rexar’s voice broke: “Fuck, yes.”
He shifted the camera slightly. She caught a glimpse of his hand—finally sliding beneath his robe, slow and unsteady. His face was flushed deep crimson now, lips parted, breath shallow.
“You’re touching yourself,” she breathed.
“I had to,” he muttered, like it physically hurt to admit. “You—you’re too much.”
“Poor thing,” she cooed. “You’re down in your murder basement, getting off to your girlfriend’s sneezes while the rest of your family’s out sacrificing souls.”
“I know,” he hissed, stroking himself now in slow, shuddering movements. “It’s so fucked.”
She smirked, letting out a fake-cute little cough. “You love it.”
“I love you,” he choked. “That’s worse.”
She giggled again, rubbing her nose between forefinger and thumb. “What if I just… kept going?”
He twitched. Visibly.
So she pushed.
“Ohhh, babe… I feel soooo yucky,” she mock-whined. “I need someone to take care of me. Rub my back. Hold me while I—hhuhhh!—Huhhh’nGTCHhh! k’tCHhh!”
She shuddered with the release, mouth parted, breath panting just a little harder.
The wet sound of his slicked strokes reached her through the speaker.
“Ohhh my gods,” she murmured. “You’re really doing it.”
“You’re making me do it,” he growled.
She tilted her head. “Good.”
“Touch yourself,” he ordered.
Kriia blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle me doing that?”
“Try me.”
She didn’t hesitate. One hand dipped under the blanket, just past the camera’s frame. Her body shifted, hips rolling slowly as her fingers found heat.
Rexar moaned.
“I’m so sensitive,” she whispered. “My skin’s all hot and I keep flinching every time I sneeze. Everything tingles. Even this…”
She stroked herself gently, breath catching.
“Fucking hell,” Rexar growled, speeding up.
“I’m gonna get messy,” she moaned. “All sticky and flushed and red—and still sneezing.”
She let out a wet sniffle, the sound obscenely timed, dragging her hand higher for one deep rub.
“Say it,” she panted. “Say what I do to you.”
“You make me crazy,” he gasped. “You make me fucking feral. I want to bury my face in your pussy while you’re feverish and begging.”
“Mmmn,” she moaned. “You’d hold me tight, right? While I can’t stop sneezing into your chest? Your shirt soaked in it, and you’d just groan every time—”
“Hnnngh—Kriia!”
She gasped too, working herself harder now under the covers, her chest rising with every fevered breath. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Just from hearing me like this?”
He nodded, frantic. “Say my name.”
“Rexar,” she purred.
Again—more desperate: “Say it.”
“Rexar,” she moaned. “Flameboy. S-Sparky. I’m gonna—hhuhhh… HHH’KTCHhh!—Ahhh! Gods—”
She came with a gasp and a sniffle, hips bucking beneath the blanket, every part of her trembling with overstimulated sensitivity.
Rexar came seconds after, breath shattering into raw, incoherent groans. His hand kept moving for a moment as he rode it out, hips arching, until he slumped back against the wall—completely undone.
For several seconds, neither of them said a word.
Kriia laid there in the dark, chest rising and falling, a lazy, satisfied smirk curling across her lips.
Again, after several seconds, Rexar finally reappeared on camera—hair mussed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and shining in the soft firelight of his hidden sanctuary. His skin glowed faintly red from exertion and residual magik, lips parted as if even breathing took effort now. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate rhythm—every inhale still tinged with the heat of his undoing.
He looked wrecked. And wholly satisfied.
He stared at the screen, drinking her in as though the image alone could sustain him a moment longer. Kriia was still lying back in her fevered nest, her shirt back in place, hoodie slightly askew on one shoulder. Her nose was still pink, twitching faintly now and then, and she dabbed at it lazily with a tissue, face soft with post-teasing contentment.
When Rexar finally spoke, his voice came out gentle, half-broken with awe, “You are fucking lethal.”
Kriia barely glanced up from blowing her nose, the sound wet and unbothered. She tossed the tissue aside with dramatic flair and exhaled tiredly. “Still worth it.”
They grinned at each other through the dim, wrecked glow of their devices.
“Okay,” Rexar finally muttered, “I need to go find a cold fountain. Or die.”
“Don’t die,” Kriia said, burrowing into the blankets. “Just come home soon.”
“Tomorrow,” he promised. “And you’re not moving. I’m gonna take care of everything.”
Kriia yawned, shadows curling up around her again. “Good. I’ll be sneezy and pathetic. Just for you.”
Rexar’s grin softened into something near worshipful.
“I love you, plague rat.”
“I know,” she mumbled, eyes already closing. “I love you, hotshot.”
There was silence for a moment—thick with shared heat, sickroom intimacy, and the kind of charged calm that came only after surrender.
Then Rexar laughed, breathless, and whispered, “Only you could get me to do these kinds of things.”
Kriia’s lips curved. “Who else but Kriia?”
She didn’t need to say anything else.
The next few minutes passed in a lull, peaceful but heavy with afterglow. Neither of them said much. Rexar rested his head against the wall, occasionally glancing down to check his camera, as if afraid she'd disappear if he blinked too long. Kriia sniffled once or twice but didn’t speak. Her eyes began to flutter closed as her breathing slowed. The teasing was done, the game complete. Now she was just tired.
She shifted deeper into her blankets, hoodie tugged up to her chin, shadows gently coiling tighter around her limbs like velvet vines. Her last visible motion was a twitch of her nose and a soft sigh as she turned onto her side, the screen dimming slightly as the camera auto-adjusted to the dark.
Rexar watched it all.
The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of a tissue. The slight hitch in her breath as she sank from playful mischief into deep, medicated sleep.
He didn’t say goodbye.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he let the image burn into him, let the stillness settle, and whispered so softly that it might not have even made it through the speaker:
“Sleep tight, menace.”
Her shadow shifted in reply—just the faintest ripple—and then stilled again.
It was nearly two in the morning by the time the Fang estate fell silent.
Above ground, the halls still carried the residue of the ritual: a low thrum of residual energy, the smell of scorched air and sanctified ash. The Culling was complete. The ceremonial fire had gone out. The others had retired to their chambers or slunk off into the snow-drenched hills beyond the estate to hunt or smoke or meditate, as they always did after devouring something eternal.
But Rexar stayed in the tunnel.
Slumped against the wall, robe half-undone, face still flushed, he watched his phone screen with the quiet intensity of someone who'd just survived a holy war. Not because of the Culling. Because of her.
Kriia had fallen asleep on the call.
He hadn’t wanted to hang up. Couldn’t bring himself to. Even now, her camera stayed open, her screen dimmed just enough to blur her features into dreamy softness.
She was curled under her mountain of blankets like a fevered empress, cheeks still ruddy, breath shallow. Her shadows coiled lazily around her shoulders and chest like a living scarf, weaving gently with each inhale, reacting even in her sleep.
Rexar watched her for several minutes, chin resting against his knee, a small crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His body still tingled—warm, drained, soul-deep content like he'd been wrung out and left glowing.
Then the screen went dark.
He blinked.
No warning. Just—Call ended.
For a second, he sat in stunned silence.
And then: buzz.
New Message from Kriia.
hey sparky, you’re probs a melted pile of smoke rn but… just in case you’re still in one piece: i miss you. even more than i wanna sneeze on you. maybe. 😛
A second later, another buzz. A voice memo this time.
He hesitated, then pressed play.
Her voice came through rough, raw with congestion, quiet like she didn’t want to wake herself up.
“Hey. Um. Sorry I ended the call. My phone tried to overheat and combust. Wonder why…” soft congested laugh “You’re probably still glowing, huh? All sweaty and pretty and ruined.” pause, long inhale “I feel gross. Still. But… I dunno. That was nice. You made me feel like I wasn’t alone, even if I was a snot-monster in a blanket cave.” pause again, soft shifting of sheets “So yeah. I miss you. And I love you a lot. Come home soon. Or I’ll find a way to sneeze directly into your next family gathering.” sniffle, softer now “...Night, Sparky.”
Rexar bit back a groan that was half love, half ache, all need.
He opened the text reply bar and hovered for a moment before typing:
You are the most beautiful snot-monster in history. I am, in fact, still glowing. I miss you so bad it’s making me stupid. You can sneeze on me tomorrow. I’m not even kidding.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he snapped a picture with the front-facing camera.
His hair was a mess. His face flushed. Eyes still heavy-lidded, and the firelight behind him painted him in deep oranges and shadowy reds. He looked wrecked. Soft.
He captioned it: “You did this.”
Hit send.
Then closed his eyes.
Let his head fall back against the obsidian wall. Let the chill of the tunnel wrap around him like a counterpoint to the heat still singing through his blood.
“Gods,” he whispered into the dark, to no one and only her. “I miss you.”
Back in their shared wing of the estate, Kriia lay cocooned in warmth.
The shadows wrapped her like a velvet cocoon, responding to her every breath with tiny pulses of inky motion. The fire in the hearth had died to coals, and her fever had dipped just low enough to grant her lucidity without totally robbing her of the sick haze that made the world feel softer.
Her phone buzzed gently on her chest.
She cracked open one eye and peeked at the screen.
The selfie made her laugh out loud—a breathy, tired chuckle that caught in her throat. Gods, he was such a mess. And it was so obviously her fault. The thought alone made her cheeks heat.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she whispered to the shadows, too soft for words, and they responded—curling tighter around her like arms, warm and thick and heavy. Almost like him.
She let her eyes fall shut.
Still smiling.
Six hours later, Rexar slipped in through the back entrance of their estate, covered in snow and ash.
The room was dark.
Silent.
He peeled off his robe, hung it over the rack, and padded quietly through the hall. When he reached the bedroom, he stopped.
She was still asleep. Curled up under their blankets. Nose pink. Mouth open. One arm flopped over the pillow, the other clutching a tissue box like a stuffed animal.
She sniffled softly in her sleep.
Rexar melted on the spot.
He tiptoed closer, reached down, and brushed a lock of red hair from her cheek. Her skin was cool now, no longer burning. Her shadows flicked toward him lazily, then relaxed. Accepting. Welcoming.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
She didn’t wake.
But she smiled in her sleep.
And that was enough.
The End ✨
Written and illustrated by allergeez ✨
